


in silence; ripen, fall and cease

by aiyah



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cats, Flowers, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiyah/pseuds/aiyah
Summary: Zuko reaches out with trembling hands and tucks it behind Sokka’s ear.“A pretty flower for a pretty boy,” he whispers.- - -[or: this is the story of an ikebana artist and the man who visits him.]
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 218





	in silence; ripen, fall and cease

**Author's Note:**

> another one off the trope bingo card. many thanks to the eternal grain for their hard work.
> 
> title from tennyson's "the lotos-eaters" ([s/o to chelsea for the galaxy brain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKingOfSorrow))

❀ ❀ ❀

There are better ways to die, Sokka supposes, than over a bed of flowers.

He’s been staring—no, _squinting_ , rather—at them for the better part of an hour, lips pursed, forehead wrinkled as he surveys the scene before him. The flowers sit motionless in the silent breeze. There’s not a petal out of place, not a single leaf out of focus, but there’s just something _off_ , something Sokka can’t quite put his finger on. _What if I_ —

 _Fuck, you made it worse_.

Undo.

Everything looks fine from this angle now—wait, no, _what about that one?_ —wait, now the lighting looks bad—and he’s twisting, turning his head every which way to look over the flowers floating on the screen of his monitor. There’s just something off, something he can’t quite place—

“Did you check your colors?” A voice echoes over Sokka’s shoulder. He’s so startled he almost falls out of his chair in surprise, his glasses nearly flying the other way before he catches them.

“What?”

“Easy there,” the voice continues, and Sokka looks up and into the face of his mentor. Piandao crosses his arms. “Did you check the color balance?”

“Um—” Sokka scratches his head. “No?”

Piandao sighs.

Sokka shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

Honestly, he has no idea what he’s doing—which makes total sense, considering he’s a pre-dental student hovering around a photography professor’s workshop, trying to figure out the difference between distortion and diffraction. Sokka had imagined his summer going down a different way—a summer research program here, a few weeks for traveling there—but the program had been cancelled at the last minute, forcing him to scramble to find something else to fill up his time besides studying for the DAT. Now _that’s_ definitely something he doesn’t want to think about quite yet.

It was probably only by the grace of Tui that Sokka had ended up getting in touch with Piandao, his photography professor from freshman year, and somehow started working in his office as an assistant. Mostly managing the equipment, setting up coursework materials for Piandao’s summer classes, the occasional “volunteering” for Piandao’s demonstrations—menial tasks that bring up residual memories of his intro photography class and not much else. He doesn’t really remember much from his freshman class (it had probably been some sort of general requirement he wanted to get out of the way as early as possible), only that dropping camera lenses was a big no-no and that Photoshop was practically a panacea for all pictures.

 _Yeah, right_.

Sokka wrinkles his nose. He’s pretty sure that Photoshop doesn’t have a _huge_ learning curve—at least that’s what Jet tells him—but Jet doesn’t really count. Sokka wrinkles his nose. Jet’s an _actual_ student photographer who gets paid big bucks to take pictures at frat parties. Sokka can barely get his iPhone to focus on his notes correctly when he takes pictures of his handwritten assignments to submit online.

And if Photoshop _really_ is the end-all, be all—then it sure as hell isn’t working for him right now. Sokka leans back into his chair and pulls off his glasses, setting them on the counter before rubbing his eyes wearily. The program had been fairly intuitive for the first few steps—and then Sokka got lost somewhere in the weeds of blending and stabilizing and hasn’t been able to make it out unscathed.

“Sokka.” Piandao holds a hand to the back of Sokka’s chair. “You’ve been staring at a screen for too long. Go take a break.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Piandao crosses his arms. “I’m not about to have you go utterly myopic from staring at the computer screen for so long.”

Sokka grumbles but he gets up, smoothing down his shirt and adjusting his glasses.

The air outside the office is cool—A/C must be on full blast—invisible fans whirring in the early summer heat. There aren’t that many people around—the fine arts building is considered a hidden gem on campus, after all—as Sokka walks around, stretching his legs, his arms, his back from sitting for so long. His footsteps echo in hallway after hallway, bouncing off the walls and the ceiling, a rhythmic pattern of thudding that follows him back into Piandao’s office.

Piandao’s sitting at his desk, a package of senbei open next to him as he stares at his computer, probably looking over emails or something.

“Would you like one?” Piandao asks, pushing the senbei towards Sokka when Sokka slides into a nearby chair. Sokka picks up a pack, tearing it open—the smell of salty-sweet hits his nose as he snaps a senbei in half, taking care not to spill cracker crumbs on the floor.

“Thanks.”

“Mhm.” Piandao swivels in his chair and directs his attention towards Sokka. “You know, I’ve been thinking about a potential task for you, if you’re up to it.”

Sokka narrows his eyes. “What sort of task?”

“You see, I was clearing out part of the archives yesterday and found this.” Piandao motions towards a folder on his desk. “I’ve been meaning to return it, but I haven’t had time outside of work.”

He nods. “You can take a look, if you’d like.”

The folder is smooth and gray, light in Sokka’s hands as he opens it up and his eyes widen. There must be dozens of photographs, shot in color, monochrome, blurred backgrounds balanced with sharp subjects—a dog’s tail, a woman’s smile, a busy street—Sokka notices just how beautiful each image is, a fleeting moment captured on silver-gray film.

 _Behind every great photograph is a great photographer_. Sokka traces the outline of a flower petal, a sprig of cherry blossoms flowering from the confines of the film. If he closes his eyes for just a second, he can almost feel silk-soft against his fingertips, twigs scratching his arms, the sunlight thumping against his back—maybe even the smell of fragrant, fresh fruit on the wind—

“—Sokka? Are you listening to me?”

The sunlight shatters as Sokka pulls himself back into the present, crumbs of senbei dotting the corners of his mouth, his mentor staring at him from across the table.

“Yes?” Sokka wipes the crumbs from his lips.

“As I was saying.” Piandao drums his fingers against the edge of the table. “These are photos from a former student of mine, and I was wondering if you could do me a favor and return them to him?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Sokka says without hesitation, heart thudding erratically as he closes the folder in front of him.

“Great, I’ll let him know you’re coming,” Piandao says. Sokka watches as Piandao scribbles something on a sticky note before handing it to him and something in his chest clenches, tightening over his lungs and making it hard to breathe.

❀ ❀ ❀

Flowers.

The entire hillside is covered in them, all purples and reds and sunset oranges, waving slowly in the breeze as the bus zooms up the steep road carved into the mountain. From a distance, the sea of flowers looks soft—delicate, really—a rustling blanket that covers the land in a kaleidoscope of warm colors. If Sokka squints just a bit, he can almost make out the glimmer of butterflies dancing around the flowers, streaks of cream and tangerine that flicker in and out of existence with each flutter.

He reaches down for his phone to snap a quick picture for his sister. Katara has always loved flowers and plants, anything with soil and earthworms and sunlight between her hands. The photo is a bit blurry—the bus is moving fairly fast, jostling along the bumps in the well-worn road—but Sokka sends it off anyways, accompanied by a string of emojis. Knowing Katara, she’s probably off trekking in the wilderness, collecting freshwater samples for her internship at the water conservancy project near their home.

For a second, Sokka wishes that he was home.

But no, he’s on this bus with only a backpack and a bag of freshly-baked taiyaki, a sticky note winking up at him with Piandao’s scrawl fluttering in the A/C.

 _Zuko Huo_ , Sokka reads silently in his mind. The name sounds familiar—he’s not sure from where—as he chews the consonants slowly between his teeth. Sokka’s done a bit of research on this guy—seems like Zuko Huo’s quite the loner, an up-and-coming ikebana artist who lives deep in the mountains. While there are hundreds of pictures of his arrangements—stunningly beautiful, delicately balanced flowers atop a base of leafy stems that stay in perfect bloom long after other arrangements have wilted—there are no pictures of the artist himself. The only article Sokka finds about Zuko Huo barely mentions anything about him besides the fact that no one knows how such a reclusive person could put together the hauntingly fantastical arrangements without leaving his home.

 _It’s bullshit, really_.

Sokka rolls his eyes, nose twitching at the smell of butter-azuki radiating from the bag of taiyaki next to him. _Zuko likes sweets_ , Piandao had mentioned yesterday, so Sokka had prepared a small treat—he wants to make a good impression on his mentor’s former student, after all. In his haste, Sokka had forgotten to eat breakfast this morning, rushing to buy the sweets straight from the griddle before getting on the bus—Granny Wu is all too happy to oblige her best customer—and now he’s paying the price, stomach rumbling as he stares forlornly at the taiyaki. He hadn’t counted on the ride being this long, but this Zuko Huo, whoever he is, lives deep in the mountains, somewhere so secluded, there’s only a single bus route that runs through the area.

 _Just two more stops_ , Sokka reminds himself, folding up the sticky note and shoving it into his pocket. The weather outside is supposed to be hot and humid today—so much for a cool spring breeze—and Sokka hopes that he won’t overheat in the sticky summer heat.

The bus finally rolls to a stop in front of a lone signpost, a braid of kudzu covering the post itself in glossy green. Sokka ducks down as he makes his way to the front, the bag of taiyaki swinging in his left arm when he swipes his card at the reader and climbs out of the bus. The air is muggy, clinging to his clothes almost instantaneously, covering his arms in a thin sheen of summer dew.

Great.

Sokka watches as the bus drives away, looking around for any sign of civilization until he finally spots another road curving away, hidden behind a thick stand of trees, full-moon maples shifting in the wind. A quick search with his phone confirms it—so _that’s_ where this mysterious Zuko Huo lives—and Sokka sets off, his water bottle clinking against a keychain on his backpack in a steady pace as he walks through the underbrush.

The temperature is much cooler in the shade—refreshing, almost—with the slightest whisper of a breeze rustling between his legs. The road is neatly-cobbled and winding up, up, until Sokka reaches a set of stone stairs, rocks smoothed together with barely a wobble when he climbs up, step by step. He can smell the stench of sulfur all around him, hear the sounds of songbirds tittering in the trees above him as he continues upwards, thighs aching from moving so much. This is probably the most that Sokka’s walked in a day since the start of his work, and he can feel his back aching ever so slightly.

There’s a gate at the top of the staircase, a wooden circle with a handle in the center that mysteriously swings open when Sokka reaches out to knock. He steps over the frame—

—and into a courtyard of sorts, a stone path etched in the ground before him, snaking its way towards a house. There are flowers everywhere, silvergrass and hydrangeas and lilies of all shapes and sizes stippling the landscape in a swathe of colors.

“Hello?” Sokka calls out, voice echoing against the walls.

Silence, save for the birds singing in the trees.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Sokka tries again, cupping his hands together. “I’m—uh, well, Piandao—wait, Professor Jian—”

“I heard you the first time,” a crackling rasp interrupts him, and out of the corner of his eye, Sokka watches as someone emerges from a cluster of bamboo, a guy wearing a loose-fitting shirt over worn pants, smudges of ruddy brown dappling his bare feet.

He’s exquisite, Sokka thinks—the way the guy suddenly appears in front of him, tall and lithe. He reminds Sokka of the nymphs he read about in his intro classics class, with midnight-black hair pooling around his shoulders, honey-amber eyes staring at Sokka inquisitively. There’s a mottled scar chipped into the side of his face, but that somehow makes him look that much more alluring. The guy’s gaze is piercing, a kingfisher cresting into a still pool of water for the first time, and something ripples inside Sokka’s chest, an unfamiliar sensation as he holds in a gasp.

_Why do I feel like I know him from somewhere?_

“Piandao did tell me to expect a visitor,” the guy says quietly, voice husky, crumbling like pebbles and startling Sokka. The guy sounds older than he looks, like he’s been living in the woods by himself all the time, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Um, I’m Sokka.” Sokka sticks out his free hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Zuko.” The guy shakes Sokka’s hand slowly. “I was told that you had something of mine?”

“Yeah, I do!” Sokka scrambles around to reach his backpack and nearly drops his taiyaki in the process. “Uh, I also. I also bought some snacks, if that’s okay?”

“Snacks?”

Sokka hands him the bag of taiyaki, watching as Zuko’s eyes light up.

“I haven’t had these in a very long time,” Zuko says quietly. “Would you like to join me for tea?”

“Sure.”

Zuko leads them to a veranda on the side of the house, motioning for Sokka to sit and wait before wiping his feet and walking inside. The tea turns out to be high mountain tea, sweet and floral as Zuko pours the teapot, washing the cups in a hot stream of boiling almost-tea over the tea tray. The taiyaki is placed on a ceramic serving dish, Sokka resisting the urge to dig into one of the fish-shaped cakes swimming tantalizingly out of reach.

“Thank you for the treats,” Zuko says as he picks up a taiyaki, motioning for Sokka to do the same. The sweets have gone slightly cold by now, but the faint smell of butter still clings to Sokka’s hands as he bites in, rewarded with the sharpest of crunches between his teeth, the taste of azuki overwhelming his senses.

Zuko brushes a crumb from his mouth, coughing slightly. “I haven’t had taiyaki in a while.”

“Really?” Sokka says. “Granny Wu—or that’s what everyone calls her, I don’t know her actual name—she makes the best snacks. And she’s famous for her taiyaki, so I thought I would, y’know. Bring some. Share the wealth.”

“Interesting.” Zuko’s staring at him again. “And you said you were Piandao’s—?”

“Just a volunteer, actually.” Sokka waves his hand. “My summer plans got cancelled, all that fun stuff. I mostly just do odds-and-ends for his classes.”

“Have you taken a class with him before?”

“Technically?” Sokka can feel a blush settling on the back of his neck. “I mean, it was basically just photography basics, but I don’t remember a lot of it, honestly.”

“Photography can be a very intimate and personal thing.” Zuko finishes eating his taiyaki.

“I haven’t seen that portfolio in quite a while,” he continues, motioning towards the gray folder that Sokka’s retrieved from his backpack. “All this time and I had thought I had misplaced it somewhere in my home. Imagine my surprise when Piandao emailed me to tell me that you were coming to return it. Thank you.”

Now it’s Sokka’s turn to look at Zuko. “How do _you_ know Piandao?”

“He is— _was_ , more like—he was my mentor, you could say.” Zuko replies. “I’ve been meaning to visit him for quite a while, although I haven’t.”

Now Sokka’s doubly curious. “Why not?”

“Just—just never got around to it, I guess,” Zuko says, an odd look emerging on his face as he looks out at the garden.

Sokka doesn’t prod any further.

The two of them sit on the veranda in silence, watching the birds dance around the trees and the flowers waltz with the wind. Zuko looks even more stunning up close, the tiniest hint of sun-kissed freckles over his nose that fade into his scar. Sokka wants to reach out— _to do what?_ —he’s not sure, so he pulls his hand into his lap.

“So I’m assuming you heard from Piandao that I’m focusing on ikebana now.” Zuko looks directly at Sokka. “Would you like to look at what I’m working on?”

“Uh, sure?”

The walls in Zuko’s home are bare, eggshell cream that stretches from the ceiling to the wooden floors. Zuko takes Sokka down a hallway and into a room, tatami rustling under their feet.

“Welcome to my studio,” Zuko motions with his hand. There’s a table near the back of the room, a half-formed cluster of blossoms erupting from a bowl— _peonies, maybe?_ —rich purple and stunning mahogany almost floating in mid-air, tethered to the bowl by thin, woody stems. It’s like one of those fantasy images from picture books come to life, the flowers swaying when Sokka steps closer to look at them.

“Did you make this?” he asks, a hush falling over his senses.

Zuko goes around the table and kneels down, a bashful look on his face. “I did.”

“It’s beautiful.” If Sokka has even an ounce of Piandao’s expertise or Jet’s knack for lighting—well, he’d be taking pictures right about now, anything to capture this moment on a slip of film.

His eyes slip past the peonies and towards the pile of flowers on the edge of the table—these flowers are magnetic, catching Sokka’s eyes as he focuses on them.

It’s a branch of cherry blossoms that has his attention, pretty-pink and pale-red against the dark bark on the table next to the half-finished arrangement. Sokka—Sokka’s pretty sure that the cherry blossom flowering season is over (he went down to the park with Suki and Jet just a few months earlier) and any flowers that are left should be wilted or dried out by now. But these blossoms look fresh, soft against Sokka’s fingers when he reaches out to touch them.

Sokka turns around and Zuko’s sitting on a cushion, pulling another one out from a stack of cushions in the corner and beckoning for Sokka to sit.

“How did you get these cherry blossoms? I thought they weren’t in season anymore,” Sokka says.

“I have my ways,” Zuko replies, smiling wanly as he folds his hands together.

 _What ways?_ Sokka opens his mouth, the question dangling on his tongue when he’s interrupted by a flash of fur that appears in the corner of the room and makes a beeline towards him. There’s a startled “ _Druk!_ ” before there’s a faceful of fluff and paws kneading into Sokka’s face as he falls backwards with a yelp.

“Druk!” Zuko’s voice rasps as he pulls off a ball of fur from Sokka’s face. It’s a cat—a small one, by the looks of it—a cream-colored cat, with a pattern of stippled orange and black petals curling over its ears and body. The cat squirms, hissing in defiance when Zuko picks it up in his hands, cradling it gently in his arms.

“Your cat is very friendly,” Sokka remarks when he gets up, smoothing down his shirt. A bit of cat fluff clings to his nose and he sneezes.

“He’s normally not like this.” Zuko sounds apologetic before turning his attention to the cat in his arms. “That was bad manners, Druk.”

The cat twitches his tail.

“Aw, it’s fine!” Sokka smiles. The cat reminds him of the stray kitten who used to live in the courtyard of the fine arts quad at school, the one he would stop and play with in between his classes. Now that he looks at the cat—they really do look similar, with near-identical autumn-maple calico coats, glossy dark eyes, and a tiny black heart for a nose. “His name is Druk, right? Could I hold him for a second?”

Zuko looks a bit taken aback. “Um, sure?”

He hands Druk to Sokka. The cat slides into Sokka’s arms, glossy fur crackling with static as Druk purrs and kneads his paws into Sokka’s elbow. This feeling—it’s almost like coming home, warm and the steady pit-pat of Druk’s heart thudding through the thin cotton of Sokka’s shirt.

They sit like this for a moment, Druk purring loudly, tail flicking against Sokka’s waist. Sokka looks through the window—the sun has moved swiftly, cutting shadows between the trees outside, the birds falling silent. Druk protests when Sokka opens his arms, the cat tumbling gracefully on all fours when Sokka stands up, brushing the remnants of cat hair from his clothes. He has a long bus ride ahead of him, and he’d rather get home early so he can get to work on time the next day.

“Before you go,” Zuko pipes up as they stand near the entrance of the garden. He pulls out a branch of cherry blossoms. “I wanted to give this to you.”

The branch is surprisingly heavy for such a fragile-looking twig, and in the dim light, the blossoms almost look like they’re glowing, faint pink against the darkening underbrush below Sokka’s feet.

“Thank you,” Sokka says, preoccupied with thoughts of where he’s going to put these flowers when he gets home. There should be a vase from that one time Katara sent him a bouquet of flowers for his birthday—maybe he can use that instead.

“Would you like to come over again?” Zuko asks when Sokka slings on his backpack, water bottle clinking. “I have a few more of my past works stored somewhere in my home, and I have really enjoyed your company as well.”

His lips curl up at the edges—there’s that smile— _wait, where have I seen it before?_ —and Sokka’s thrown for a loop, mouth opening and closing as he nods silently.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Sokka replies after a second. “But how will I—”

“Can I see your phone?” Zuko interrupts, nodding graciously when Sokka wordlessly hands over his phone. He types quickly before giving the phone back to Sokka. “You have my number now.”

“Oh! Yeah, that works.” Sokka pockets his phone. “So I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Of course.”

“It was nice meeting you, Zuko.”

“Likewise.”

The staircase is dark against the waning rays of the sun, and Sokka focuses on the path before him, taking careful steps. He can hear the sound of creaking wood, of someone coughing while he walks down the stairs, otherworldly noises against the silent nature around him.

❀ ❀ ❀

Sokka brings crawfish on his second visit.

It’s garlic crawfish—technically Jet’s favorite, but according to Jet, Zuko loves garlic crawfish.

“Listen to me. That guy, he _loves_ crawfish,” Jet had declared as he and Sokka sat in the living room of their apartment, a steaming bowl of fresh crawfish between them. The crawfish had been a gift from Jet’s PI—something about finally publishing a paper—and Jet had cooked it up, all garlicky and oily with the slightest hint of malt from the entire bottle of Tsingtao that Jet had poured into the wok.

“How do you know him again?” Sokka had asked. He had mentioned his visit with Zuko to his roommate—it was hard not to, considering the huge branch of cherry blossoms now displayed on their living room table, especially when Jet had realized that, even after a week, none of the blossoms had fallen.

“Took a stats class with him once,” Jet replied, scowling at Sokka’s baffled expression. “What? You didn’t think sociology majors needed stats? Rude, bro.”

“Oh, not that. Just, y’know, that you know Zuko.”

“We sat next to each other for the entire semester.” Jet cracked another crawfish between his fingers and pulled out the tail. “Then I asked him if he wanted to study for midterms with me. He said yes, and as one would say, the rest is history.”

“And we had crawfish at a study session once. He ate the entire thing,” Jet continued, tossing the empty shell into the trash can across the room. “So yeah. Zuko likes crawfish.”

Which is the only logical explanation for why Sokka’s carrying a takeout container full of spicy, aromatic crustaceans up the steps to Zuko’s home, the bag swinging back and forth as he finally makes it to the top and steadies his breath.

Zuko’s actually sitting in the yard this time when Sokka knocks and pushes the door open, Druk lounging in his lap until Sokka steps through the arch and into the garden.

“I bought a snack,” Sokka shakes the bag in greeting, jumping when Druk springs out of Zuko’s lap and careens towards his legs, weaving figure-eights between Sokka’s ankles.

Zuko grins, the scar furrowing on his cheek. “Let me grab some plates.”

Eating crawfish is a messy task, especially with bare hands, oil splashing everywhere, the smell of garlic accompanied by rhythmic cracking as they snap the crawfish open, one by one. Druk hovers around, mewing piteously until Zuko rinses off a tiny piece of crawfish tail and feeds it to him.

“Only one for you,” he says to the cat.

Druk hisses.

“How’ve you been doing?” Sokka asks as he pulls apart another crawfish, tossing the shell into the plastic bag. “Your flower arrangements?”

“They’re coming along,” Zuko says, humming quietly as he picks apart another crawfish with his fingers, all spindly and thin. He’s wearing a yukata this time, tied loosely around his waist in the summer heat, his hair pulled into a messy bun with a comb holding it all together. Sokka thinks he looks thinner, maybe a bit paler—but then again, maybe it’s the light playing tricks on him. “I’m actually working on one out back.”

“What kind of arrangement is it?”

“Lotus.” Zuko drops the empty crawfish shell into the bag.

“I bet it’s pretty,” Sokka says. _Just like you_.

“Would you like to take a look?” Zuko pauses. “After we finish eating, of course. It’s a good thing that the garbage truck comes around tomorrow. I can’t have Druk or other animals rummaging through my trash for scraps to eat.”

“Sure!” Sokka replies, frowning when he sees Zuko paling. “Hey, are you okay?”

A cough escapes from Zuko’s lips, then another, and another, until he’s doubled down over his knees, back shaking. Sokka pushes the plates aside, wipes his hands on a napkin—he’s not about to dirty Zuko’s yukata—and grabs Zuko’s shoulders, supporting him, bracing him against the onslaught of the harsh coughs. Druk’s meowing frantically now, tail beating against Sokka’s side as he holds Zuko up as best as he can.

“Zuko?” Sokka’s frantic. “Zuko? Are you okay?”

The coughing subsides, Zuko holding a hand to his mouth as he nods silently.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he says, and Sokka thinks his voice is different, somehow, like he’s holding something back. Before Sokka can say anything, Zuko’s on his feet, hand still clasped to his mouth as he rushes inside.

Sokka can’t get the image of Zuko coughing out of his head, even as he moves to tidy up the space, Druk swishing his tail in agitation. It hurts, it physically cuts into him somehow, something curdling against his stomach, seeing Zuko bent over in pain, struggling to speak, to breathe. Sokka wishes that he’ll never have to see that again.

And after he’s cleaned everything up, after the plates are stacked and the shells are thrown, there’s a pink petal on the ground, a petal unlike any other that Sokka’s seen before. He picks it up before Druk has a chance to play with it, holding it up to the light, watching how dark pink fades into the tiniest bit of white at the edges. The petal is absolutely pristine, save for the smallest speckle of a crimson bead dotting the surface, like a colored dewdrop.

“You know what this is?” he asks Druk.

The cat glares up at him, probably annoyed at how Sokka stole his toy.

“No?”

Druk meows.

 _Interesting_.

Suddenly, Zuko returns with a tub, sloshing with water as he sets it down on the veranda. Sokka looks into the tub and a bed of lotus flowers greets him, some fully bloomed, others tightly furled in whites, pinks, yellows.

“There’s so many of them,” he says when Zuko picks one up, snipping off the tip of the stem with a pair of clippers. “How did you get this many?”

“Shh.” Zuko puts a finger to his lips with the tiniest of smiles.

“You and your secrets.” Sokka rolls his eyes dramatically. He reaches down into the tub and plucks a pale pink blossom from the water, shaking it out slightly before tucking it behind Zuko’s ear. “There you go, the great king of the lotus.”

“Thank you, Sokka.” Zuko laughs, a twinkling sound that doesn’t resemble anything like the hacking coughs or his gravelly voice, a sound of pure amusement and happiness.

There’s something aching in Sokka’s chest, but he’s not sure what it is.

❀ ❀ ❀

The garden is empty when Sokka arrives.

“Back here,” he hears Zuko’s voice echoing from the direction of the back of the house. “I’m back here.”

Sokka follows the sound of Zuko’s voice until he’s at the back of the house. Zuko’s standing over a table, a sheaf of pale muslin in his hands as he squeezes the muslin over a bowl, the smell of summer-sweet lingering in the air. Sokka watches as a thin stream of golden syrup oozes from the muslin and into the bowl.

“You know that there’s a driveway to my house, right?” Zuko’s voice is teasing. His arms tense as he squeezes the muslin.

“Yeah—” Sokka starts, hesitating because _yep, didn’t know that_ but also because he’s so used to counting each step as he climbs up the stairs, “—but I like the stairs more, I guess.”

He points at the bowl. “Anyways, what’re you doing?”

“Fresh honeycomb,” Zuko says as he pauses to adjust his grip. His voice sounds better this time, a bit less scratchy but still hoarse. “My uncle brought some from his farm earlier.”

The honey drips into the bowl, sticky amber that captures the tiniest bit of sunlight in each drop before sinking into the pool below. Streaks of clear gold run down Zuko’s hands, painting shattered-kintsugi patterns on his arms, an eggshell cracking but not quite, jagged edges that somehow all fit together in a puzzle.

“Could you do me a favor?” Zuko asks. He nods towards a separate bowl, marigold kumquats and sunny lemons bobbing in the water. “Could you slice those up for me?”

Sokka wastes no time, dropping his backpack on the side and rolling up his sleeves before picking up the knife. He cuts the kumquats into crescents, the lemons into slivered full-moons, seeds and all, the citrus peels staining his fingernails with the softest of yellows as he arranges each slice on a plate. The aroma of citrus is sharp, and mixed with the smooth floral notes of honey—Sokka loses himself into his task.

“What’re you making?” he finally asks when he finishes cutting up the lemons.

“Citrus honey.” Zuko puts the muslin off to the side.

He wipes his hands with a damp towel before picking up the plate of citrus and arranging individual pieces of kumquat and lemon in a glass jar. The bowl of honey goes in next, sticky as he pours it into the jar and closes the lid.

“I still have some honeycomb left, if you’d like to try,” Zuko says when he wipes down the table.

“Really? Could I have some?”

Zuko nods before uncovering a plastic-wrapped block of honeycomb. This one is darker—a rich mahogany, almost—and he breaks it apart with his fingers, handing a piece to Sokka before splitting up another for himself, biting into the honeycomb and chewing it thoughtfully.

Sokka’s never had honeycomb before, but if it’s just honey with the added comb—well, it’s just honey then, right? He bites into the honeycomb with gusto, ignoring the honey escaping and racing down his arms as his mouth fills with the taste of rich sweetness and captured sunshine, a taste so overwhelmingly pure, it almost sends Sokka to his knees in amazement.

 _Holy shit_.

“I—” he tries to say around a mouthful of comb, “—I— _what the fuck, this is so good_.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Zuko’s dimples peek out for a split second. “My uncle would be honored to hear that. He has some of the best-kept bee boxes in the area.”

“Does he sell it? Honeycomb?” Sokka swallows the comb, throat tightening at the unfamiliar sensation. “Maybe I should get some.”

“You could,” Zuko replies. “Or I could save some for you when he brings more.”

He leans down to lick his fingers, delicate motions that have no business making Sokka’s heart beat so fast.

Sokka gulps.

 _Dear spirits_.

His heart doesn’t calm down when they go back inside, Zuko putting the jar of citrus honey away on a shelf before heading to the back room. The table’s empty this time, no half-finished ikebana arrangement, just a pile of chrysanthemums on the side.

“They bloomed early this year, didn’t they?” Sokka muses as he picks a chrysanthemum up, his eyes narrowing. He’s no plant expert—that’s more up Katara’s alley—but he’s pretty sure that chrysanthemums don’t bloom this early in the summer.

Zuko says nothing, only offering Sokka another piece of honeycomb before coughing quietly.

“Are you okay?” Sokka’s senses are on high alert, especially with what happened on his last visit. “Do you need anything? Water?”

“I’m fine,” Zuko replies. But the look in his eyes, how gaunt he looks, the circles under his eyes—Sokka knows that there’s something wrong, but he doesn’t want to pry.

❀ ❀ ❀

Forget-me-not.

 _That’s what Zuko is_ , Sokka murmurs to himself as he goes about his week, helping Piandao organize the archive and printing out new coursework. Zuko’s like a forget-me-not, seeds sticking to Sokka’s shoelaces when he goes home, scattering across the floor of his apartment in fragmented memories. He’s lodged himself neatly in Sokka’s mind, and most days, Sokka finds himself worrying, wondering about the gorgeous guy who hides away in the mountains with only his calico cat for company.

And then Zuko gets sick.

At least that’s what his texts say, the ones he must’ve sent in a fever-daze at two in the morning because Sokka had stayed up late playing Genshin Impact (bad idea) and briefly saw the notifications blinking on his phone before he forgot to take a shower and fell asleep on his couch. Sokka wakes up to a crick in his neck and Zuko’s texts.

< _I’m not feeling well_.> the message reads. < _Please don’t mind me. I’ll be fine_.>

But Sokka—Sokka’s had his fair share of looking after Katara when she was sick, not to mention him taking care of his roommates after wild parties, and he’s not about to take no for an answer.

< _i’m coming over ok?_ > he texts Zuko while walking to the bus stop, an insulating bag slung over his shoulder. Haru, Jet’s boyfriend, swears by his dad’s congee— _yeah, I’m completely serious, Sokka!_ —so Sokka picks up an order after breakfast, stumbling down the street. There’s a container of pork and preserved egg congee in his bag—hot from the breakfast nook run by Haru’s dad—and some youtiao the old man had stuffed into the takeout bag as a treat (“any friend of my son’s is a friend of the family!”), even though the crispy dough is bound to get soggy by the time Sokka actually makes it to Zuko’s house.

Sokka is sure the bus ride gets shorter every time, the bumps in the road barely noticeable as he hurriedly sends text after text to Zuko, trying to make sure that he’s doing okay.

< _I’m fine, Sokka_.> Sokka reads Zuko’s texts as he climbs up the stairs once more, two at a time, ignoring the stretch in his muscles and the ache in his hips. < _Thank you_.>

“Too late. I’m already here,” Sokka calls out when he knocks on the door.

The door opens, and Zuko appears, a thick coat around his shoulders, shuddering as if he’s freezing in the middle of summer, a bead of sweat trembling on his cheek.

“Oh shit,” Sokka gasps. “You look terrible.”

“Do I?”

“Now’s not the time to be joking.” Sokka closes the door behind him. “I’m gonna go prepare this congee and you’re going to eat all of it, okay?”

“Sokka—”

“Don’t _‘Sokka’_ me.” They’ve made it inside the house, Sokka ushering Zuko to the nearest seat on the couch, fluffing the pillows so that Zuko’s comfortable. “Just rest.”

The congee is still warm when Sokka opens it up in the kitchen, ladling it into a bowl and dipping a spoon on the side. He grabs a spare plate and a bowl on his way back to Zuko, shaking out the youtiao onto the plate before setting the bowl of congee on the table.

“You really didn’t have to,” Zuko protests weakly. “Really, you didn’t. You should’ve bought enough for yourself, too.”

“Who says I didn’t?” Sokka pulls out another container of congee, cracking open the lid, the smell of warm rice and broth making his stomach gurgle. “And I bought the congee for you because I wanted to. Oh, and there’s youtiao, too.”

They eat the congee in silence, soft puffs of ginger and scallion steam mingling in the air. Druk slinks into the room and yowls at Sokka’s feet until Sokka feeds him a piece of pork, still warm and tender, along with a small piece of youtiao for good measure. Zuko is quiet for the most part, his spoon clinking against his bowl, tearing apart pieces of youtiao with his fingers and dipping it into his congee studded with pork and preserved egg. His face is blank, eyes seemingly clouded with exhaustion, like he’s been battling something inside him for far too long, something deeper than a mere cold.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Sokka asks after they finish eating. He’s already washed the dishes and opened up a can of food for Druk, setting the bowl down in the kitchen and watching the calico cat eat noisily before returning to Zuko’s side on the couch.

“No,” Zuko says, voice trembling. “Just—could I borrow your lap for a bit?”

“My lap?” Sokka’s confused. “Um, sure? I guess?”

“Thanks,” Zuko replies before he unceremoniously flops down in Sokka’s lap, closing his eyes, hands curling as he finds a comfortable position to burrow his head in. His body rises and falls with each breath, a harsh sound that gradually evens out to steady snores when he falls asleep.

When it starts raining outside, a gentle pitter-patter drumming against the roof that slides down the awning into the yard with a splash, Sokka’s heart sings.

Sitting here, with Zuko’s head in his lap—Sokka reaches down and brushes a stray lock of hair from Zuko’s forehead and tucks it behind his ear. Zuko’s feverish to the touch, like his entire body is burning, so brittle and ash-thin. He looks so young—fragile yet world-weary, the slightest of wrinkles on his forehead, the faintest of crow’s feet etched near the corners of his eyes. His eyelashes are long, delicately fluttering with each breath he takes. In the dim light, Zuko’s scar looks less angry, whorls of crimson fading into pale scarlet on the edges, a rose blooming faintly on his cheek.

There’s the slightest tinge of burgundy on Zuko’s lips, and Sokka reaches down to wipe it away with a napkin.

The napkin comes up with crimson.

Sokka’s chest clenches.

 _Oh_.

❀ ❀ ❀

“I’m glad to hear that he’s doing well,” Piandao says when Sokka tells him about Zuko. “I heard that he got sick, but I’ve been busy dealing with my classes. Do you know a Mr. Patel?”

 _Wait_. Sokka scratches his head. The only Patel that he knows is—

“We always get into the most asinine arguments about contemporary photography over email,” Piandao mutters. “Something about unconventional lighting and the proper usage of lens flares.”

_Lens flares. Must be Jet._

“Anyways,” the professor continues, “I was wondering if you could bring Zuko a gift from me?”

He pulls out a bottle of Moutai and places it on the table with a thud.

“Yeah, I can,” Sokka replies.

The bus ride feels like mere minutes instead of hours now, the staircase is infinitely less menacing when Sokka climbs up the steps, the bottle of Moutai secure in his backpack. He knocks on the door twice before climbing into the garden.

“You’re here early,” Zuko’s voice echoes as he squats near a hollow of butterfly orchids, their tiny blossoms fluttering in the wind, desperately trying to escape their perch. He’s wearing a T-shirt today, a neon-matcha-green one with a dragon emblazoned on the back with the words “ _THE JASMINE DRAGON_ ” interlaced between the dragon’s feet. It’s a stark contrast from the silken shirts he usually wears, the ones in muted hues of tans and grays, and Sokka’s taken aback as he swings his backpack around, unzips it, and pulls out the bottle of Moutai.

“Piandao is generous,” Zuko remarks as he stands up, brushing down the front of his pants and walking towards Sokka. He plucks the bottle from Sokka’s grasp and reads the label, humming appreciatively. “This will go well with dinner. Care to join me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sokka replies, trailing after Zuko to a secluded part of the yard. He has no idea what Zuko has in store—in the few times they’ve hung out together, Sokka’s always been the one bringing food—and his stomach grumbles noisily at the thought of dinner.

Zuko leads them to a small, grassy space near the back of the house. There’s a yakiniku grill set up, a nest of coals spread in the pit, waiting to be lit. Sokka’s heart skips a beat at the two stools placed haphazardly next to the grill—almost like Zuko’s been _expecting_ him to stay for dinner—

“If you want to start the fire,” Zuko interrupts Sokka’s thoughts, “I’ll go in to prepare the food?”

He hands Sokka a lighter and a small paper fan before stepping through the doorway and down a hall.

Sokka lights the charcoal with a practiced hand, twisting the fan doubtfully between his hands before he waves it gently over the charcoal, watching molten orange flare up ever so slightly. The smell of oak is heavy in the air, smoke pouring out from the charcoal in a steady spiral upwards to the sky as Sokka squats down, one hand bracing himself as he focuses on coaxing the flame before him. It’s almost like a flower—temperamental, fleeting, hesitant—a tiny blossom that refuses to reveal its true colors until Sokka breathes it to life with slow, sure fanstrokes.

A sudden meow almost knocks Sokka off his feet in surprise, and he glares at Druk when the cat slinks into view, purring loudly as he nuzzles against Sokka’s legs.

“Get off,” Sokka pushes the cat away, protesting when Druk continues to sidle up to him. “It’s hot.”

Druk meows.

“Ugh, fine.” Sokka throws his hands up in defeat. What’s the point in arguing with a cat, anyway?

By the time Zuko gets back with platters of meat and vegetables balanced in his hands, the grill is ready, Sokka pushing around a layer of burning charcoal with a pair of metal tongs, tiny sparks escaping with each sweep.

“I could’ve helped,” Sokka says when he sees the shot glasses balanced precariously on top of everything Zuko’s carrying, reaching up to grab the plates and the glasses before they tumble to the ground.

“The fire needs tending,” Zuko replies, placing the platters down. He walks over to the grill and squints, cheek dimpling when he turns back to Sokka. “You’ve done a great job.”

“I used to do this all the time with my dad when we went camping.” Sokka scratches his head. He’s definitely blushing already—and he’s not even drunk.

(Yet.)

“I hope you’re in the mood for meat, because I have quite a bit prepared,” Zuko says sheepishly as he waves a skewer of pork between his fingers. Besides the aforementioned meat, there’s corn and cabbage and onion, all neatly skewered and ready to be grilled.

The pork belly sizzles when Zuko places the first skewer over the grill, small beads of oil dripping down into the charcoal below. Sokka takes the opportunity to open the Moutai, fumbling for the glasses as he pours out a shot for each of them. The Moutai is clear and colorless, liquid catching the sunset as it drips down Sokka’s arm when he hands a glass to Zuko.

“I suppose I’ll make a toast.” Zuko cocks an eyebrow as he raises his glass, Sokka doing the same. “To friends, flowers, and fate.”

Their glasses clink together, a peal into the otherwise hushed garden.

The Moutai burns as it goes down Sokka’s throat, caustic and sharp—he wipes his mouth on his shirtsleeve before placing the shot glass back on the table.

Zuko wasn’t joking about how much food he’s prepared—Sokka plows through skewer after skewer of beef tongue and pork belly, dipping each slice in sour-sweet tare sauce and chewing quickly before the heat sears in his mouth. The vegetables come next—juicy kernels of corn, grilled circles of onion—along with a few more shots of Moutai to round it off.

Time passes with a snap of his fingers, and before Sokka knows it, the garden is dark, save for the lanterns swinging to and fro from their supports. Somewhere, beyond the bamboo grove, out in the vast expanse of the shadowy night—Sokka thinks he sees a wink of fireflies, flickering in and out of existence, tiny lights that float closer and closer to the grill. Druk meows as he reaches up and bats at a firefly with his paw, the tiny light teetering unsteadily as the firefly floats upwards and out of reach, much to the cat’s dismay.

Zuko’s been quiet for a while now, his face rosy-pink as he flips the last of the skewers over the dying charcoal. He looks ethereal in the hazy light of the lanterns, eyes furrowed as he pours out another shot of Moutai and takes tiny sips.

“Well, I’m stuffed,” Sokka declares. The combination of meat and Moutai has warmed his entire body, and a pleasant buzz works its way up his neck and into his head. They’ve finished cleaning up the grill and are now sitting on the veranda, Druk curled up in a ball between them.

“I’ve always admired you, you know,” Zuko slurs, a tendril of _something_ creeping on the edge of his voice. “How you stand up for others.”

Sokka blinks in confusion. _What does that have to do with_ —

“You might not remember, but this, this whole meeting-at-my-house-thing—this isn’t the first time we’ve met,” Zuko carries on, his words a flowing stream that doesn’t seem to stop. “Two—wait, no—what comes— _three_ years ago—” he holds up two fingers, “—you saved me.”

“Huh?” Sokka looks at him in confusion. _Just how bad is the Moutai getting to him?_ “Whaddaya mean?”

“Photography class.” Zuko drops his head, swaying unsteadily on his perch. “Showcase—we had a showcase at the end of the class. My father came, gave me an earful about my—my _hobbies_ , I reckon.” He spits out _hobbies_ like it’s a fish bone, irritating and sharp, stuck between his teeth. “Told me that it wouldn’t be worth anything when it came to reality.”

He whirls around, Sokka jumping up and barely catching him in time, the two of them falling to the ground with a painful _ow!_ (Sokka) and a muffled groan (Zuko).

“Can you believe he said that to me? His son? In public?” Zuko’s agitated, face practically glowing in anger. “Agni only knows how I didn’t lose my temper that day.”

“Then you came along,” he continues, booping Sokka on the nose. “You and your little friend—I think I took a class with him once—you came up and tried to defend me against my father.” Zuko’s frown curls into a smile. “You were _yelling_ at him, I remember.”

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Sokka’s mind, a fragmented memory resurfaces—something about Jet asking him to go to an event so Jet could get some extra credit for his final project—a loud and arrogant man, berating a dark-haired boy standing next to a row of photographs of water lilies and buzzing cityscapes—

“ _That was you?_ ”

“Mhm,” Zuko mutters, shoulders jerking when a cough overtakes him, small at first, then a growing fit of harsh wheezing as he continues coughing. Sokka holds on to him as best he can—even patting his back—but the coughs don’t stop, slowly dissolving into muffled choking—

There’s petals everywhere.

Beautiful, silky hearts. They float in the air as Zuko’s entire body spasms, wave after wave of petals, filaments, oily-green leaves pouring from his open mouth.

Sokka’s rooted in place, his arms stiffening around Zuko. If he wasn’t so shocked—no, he _is_ , what _is this?_ —his face slackening in horror as he watches the petals pour forth, creams and pinks and purples, a cascade of flower petals that would be beautiful in any other situation than this. The blood comes next, mixing with the petals and the leaves as Zuko struggles to contain his coughs, both hands over his mouth—eyes open, pleading for help.

But there’s nothing Sokka can do but freeze up in terror. _Why_ —wait, no, _how_ —wait— _why?_ he wants to ask, but the words wilt before he can get them out.

Finally—finally, after what seems like an agonizing hour—finally, Zuko’s fit subsides. Sokka watches as he coughs up a perfectly pristine camellia blossom into his shaking palms. It’s red—a rich carmine—with the tiniest hint of vermilion on the edges.

Zuko reaches out with trembling hands and tucks it behind Sokka’s ear.

“A pretty flower for a pretty boy,” he whispers.

Sokka’s still in shock, completely slack-jawed as Zuko gets up, swaying unsteadily on his feet. He scrambles up after Zuko, brushing the back of his pants, hands going up to touch the camellia behind his ear—

It’s _real_.

“Zuko—” Sokka begins, voice trailing off because he has no idea what to say next.

He isn’t prepared for Zuko to lean forward and kiss him gently on the cheek before pulling away, leaning down and picking up Druk.

“It’s late,” Zuko says.

“I’ll be back,” Sokka replies.

His cheek burns something red-hot as he makes his way down the stairsteps—now so familiar, he remembers every crack and crevice—burning hotter than the blush staining his entire body.

❀ ❀ ❀

The height of summer rolls in with a swell of cicadas, buzzing loudly in the trees.

Sokka can hear them all the way inside the confines of the bus as it travels up the mountains, a path that he’s taken dozens of times at this point. Zuko hasn’t contacted him ever since their last meeting, and Sokka’s heart aches to know if he’s doing okay.

The cicadas follow him as he climbs up the steps, two at a time. It’s a sound that reminds Sokka of backyard barbeques, of long walks down by the forest creek, of sweltering rooms and dandelion kisses with the neighbor’s daughter he had a crush on.

Then Yue had moved away and Sokka had moved on, his first love lost to the straits of fleeting memories and teenage angst. A part of him had been missing, a tiny puzzle piece lost in the portrait of his life, falling from his pocket and down into the cracks. Over the years, Sokka had learned to hide that slip of loneliness inside him from others but the twitch persisted, painful enough to notice if he dwelled on it for too long.

Until Zuko comes along, filling Sokka’s summer thoughts with flowers and fruit and food, cheerful laughter, twinkling smiles that rivaled the brightest of sunrises—Zuko hasn’t pieced the puzzle back together. No, he draws over the empty space, painting it in his own colors—a dab of gold here, a twist of umber there—and somewhere along the way, Sokka becomes whole again.

Sokka pauses on the twenty-second step, sweat pouring down his forehead as he chuckles quietly to himself. He has no idea what Zuko will say if he confesses his feelings—would he laugh? cry? smile?—the possibilities are exhilarating if he could just say them out loud.

When Sokka reaches the top of the steps and knocks on the front door, it swings open, revealing Druk—

—with a single, bloodstained spider lily at his feet.

Sokka sees red as he runs through the garden, shouting Zuko’s name over and over again. The birds scatter away as he pounds through the house, footsteps booming.

He finds Zuko motionless on the floor of his studio, a meadow of flowers blooming around him, like Ophelia, slowly sinking into the dark. There’s a drop of blood on his lips, a near-perfect pearl that slowly melts into a trickle of red down his chin.

“ _Zuko!_ ”

And then it’s like Sokka’s own lungs are suddenly filling with sharp spines, capillaries rupturing, a baffling pain carving through his own body as he rushes forward and cradles Zuko’s head in his hands. He’s screaming now, crying, begging for someone, anyone, to help—to help Zuko, to help Druk, to help him get this pain out because it hurts so much and he can’t stand it.

❀ ❀ ❀

Sokka doesn’t remember much after that.

❀ ❀ ❀

Sokka doesn’t remember much after that, only that he’s somehow walked his way into the hospital and into the waiting room, fingers drumming anxiously on his knees as he waits for any news.

The paramedics had arrived and Zuko had been rushed out on a gurney—Sokka had rushed onto the ambulance without a second thought—and the entire journey to the hospital had felt like a never-ending odyssey, Sokka clutching Zuko’s hand the entire time and whispering “ _we’re almost there, love, just hold on_ ” over and over again until they arrived.

And now he’s sitting out here, a hand held to his chest as he takes unsteady breaths, trying to calm himself down from remembering how cold, how lifeless Zuko had seemed, a porcelain doll surrounded by those flowers in his studio. The smell of disinfectant cloys his nose, artificial floral scents that smell empty and hollow, just like his heart.

Sokka waits and waits and waits until his feet go numb from the A/C, only jerking to life when a girl runs up to him, amber eyes sharp with worry, a motorcycle helmet dangling from her backpack. She looks just like Zuko, except she carries an air of pride around her, settling into intimidation when she skids to a halt in front of Sokka and crosses her arms.

“Are you Sokka?” the girl asks.

It takes a minute for Sokka to reply, voice scratchy from his screaming earlier. “Yes.”

This is how Sokka meets Azula: Zuko’s sister who has always been close with her older brother, Zuko’s sister who goes to university two hours away, Zuko’s sister—who broke half of the traffic laws just to reach the hospital in under an hour, tires still smoking when she throws on the brakes and rushes into the building.

“I heard that you came on the ambulance with him.” Azula crashes into the seat next to Sokka, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “How is he doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Sokka replies. He’s not sure if it’s been minutes or hours since Zuko had been rushed into the emergency ward, only that a nurse had directed him to take a seat in the waiting area to wait for further updates.

“ _Agni_ help me,” Azula mutters between gritted teeth. She turns towards Sokka, eyes narrowing as she studies his face. “Zuzu’s told me about you.”

“He has?”

“Yeah.” Azula reaches back to adjust her ponytail. “Told me that there’s been a cute guy visiting him this summer.”

“ _Cute?_ ”

“Well, maybe he didn’t say _that_ part. But I just guessed.” Azula shrugs, leaning back in the chair. “I always knew that he had a soft spot for the cute ones, like Druk— _oh, shit_.”

“What?”

“Someone needs to take care of Druk,” Azula says softly. “He loves that dumb, stupid cat so much.”

Sokka’s mind flashes to Druk— _oh, spirits, is he doing okay by himself?_ —and he begins to respond, only to falter when Azula pushes on.

“Did Zuzu ever tell you how he found Druk?” Azula grips her hands tightly. “He brought him home in a stupid box and wouldn’t shut up about the stupid cat he found at school.”

 _No way_.

Sokka’s heart skips a beat.

“What—?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Azula pulls out her phone and scrolls through her photos, tapping on a tiny icon that blows up into an image of a small kitten and handing her phone to Sokka.

The phone almost slips in between Sokka’s fingertips when he stares at the picture in shock. The kitten is clearly Druk, down to the heart-shaped nose and liquid amber eyes, tiny paws balancing on the edge of a box held by a smiling boy—and it all comes back to Sokka in a rush—

❀ ❀ ❀

The courtyard of the fine arts quad had been filled with flowers. Sokka had noticed this years ago on his way to his intro photography class, how chaotic yet deliberate everything seemed to be.

“One of the bio professors is interested in horticulture or something,” Katara had told Sokka during one of their weekly lunch hangouts. “I guess she just keeps most of her plants there.”

It had started with azaleas, then rhododendrons, then daisies and lilies, and finally, a kitten.

(A kitten?)

The kitten had appeared one day inside a cardboard box like a changeling, left by the fairies for someone to find. It was small and quiet and hidden underneath a maple tree, the constant rush of students deafening its cries. Most students didn’t pay attention to the kitten at all—

—all except one.

Sokka had first discovered the kitten when he sat outside in the courtyard one day after class, waiting for Jet to come back from office hours so they could go eat lunch together. The kitten mewled and Sokka, startled, had almost jumped straight into the air until he saw the box moving on the soil next to the tree and peered inside.

Katara would probably call him stupid (“Sokka, you don’t even know if it has rabies!”) but something about the kitten, small and shivering in the chilly spring breeze, poked at him incessantly until Sokka decided to do something about it. He had no idea what kittens ate (fish, right?) and brought along a tin of tuna the next time, popping the lid open and placing it in the box next to the kitten, grinning when the kitten took its first tentative bites before devouring the entire tin by itself.

“Easy there, tiger,” Sokka said as he pulled the empty tin out from the box so the kitten wouldn’t cut itself on the sharp edges of the opening. “I’ll bring you more later, okay?”

This continued on for a few weeks, Sokka bringing tuna, cat treats, even a tin of cat food he “borrowed” from Suki, much to her annoyance. The kitten grew bigger, its fur sleek in the sunlight as Sokka reached down and petted its head. The kitten purred, whiskers twitching as it stretched its little feet and curled its little tail.

“You’ve been here so long,” Sokka murmured as he picked the kitten up. “You’ve been here so long, and I haven’t even given you a name yet.”

He didn’t have to.

A day later, when Sokka was leaving his class, he saw a stranger at the foot of the maple tree, a mysterious guy squatting on his heels and dangling a cat toy over the box, laughing as a tiny paw poking out to bat at the feathers. A bolt of jealousy shocked Sokka’s body as he turned around and walked the other way, something itching behind his eyelids as he realized that the kitten wasn’t alone, that there was someone to care for it.

The next time he showed up, the box was gone.

❀ ❀ ❀

Sokka has always wondered if the kitten had just run off, if someone—maybe that guy he saw that one time—if someone had just taken the box, and a sense of unease lingers with him long after the class has ended. It’s never gone away, and he’s always wondered what had happened to the kitten.

And all this time—after all these years, the kitten—wait, _Druk_ —Druk the kitten—

 _Oh_.

Before Sokka has time to consider this revelation, a door swings open and an older man walks through, his face haggard as he stumbles towards Sokka and Azula. He looks exhausted beyond his years, the wrinkles on his face darkening with each step he takes.

“Uncle—” Azula begins, but the man raises his hand, silencing her as he takes a seat next to Sokka and lets out a deep sigh.

“Before you ask,” the man says, turning and looking at Sokka. He has the same eyes as Zuko—soft amber, even under the harsh glare of the hospital lights overhead. “Are you Sokka?”

Sokka blinks. “Yes?”

“So you’re the one who stole his heart,” the man says, nodding. “You were right—” he says to Azula, “—he does go for the cute ones.”

“And? That’s not the point.” Azula looks impatient. “ _How is he?_ ”

“Hold on, what’s going on?” Sokka asks, utterly confused. “And how do you know my name?”

“I’m Iroh, Zuko’s uncle,” the man replies, still shaking his head slightly, a wan smile on his face. “I’m—”

“Stop with the chit-chat.” Azula pushes herself between them, hands curling into fists as she stands up, towering over Iroh. “How is Zuko doing? Is he—?”

The unspoken question hangs between the three of them.

“He’s—” Iroh hesitates. “He’s very ill, Azula.”

Azula sucks in a breath and everything shudders, like the oxygen in the room has vanished in a split second. She’s trembling, knees quivering as she slowly sinks down into her chair.

Sokka hates seeing people cry—he can’t stand seeing other people in pain—and when Azula lets out a strangled sob like a wild animal, a pitiful wail that echoes in the empty room as she cries—it’s almost like Sokka’s own heart is being forced out his own chest, still beating, the pain of Azula’s cries evident on both his and Iroh’s faces.

“You mean, he’s _dying_ ,” Azula snaps between gasps, and Sokka struggles to choke back a lump in his throat. His chest tightens, tension building and building, on the verge of snapping completely.

Iroh shrugs helplessly. “Azula—”

“Why _?_ ”

“Azula—”

“That’s not fair!” Azula’s still crying, tears pouring down her cheeks as she punches weakly at the air, desperate motions against nothing. “ _He isn’t supposed to die because he loves someone who doesn’t love him back!_ ”

Sokka’s blood runs cold when he realizes what this means, what the flowers really mean— _oh, spirits_ —all this time where Zuko had been acting like his cough wasn’t a big deal— _oh_ —

He must have gone completely pale, judging by the look of concern on Azula’s face.

“Are you okay?” she asks, face furrowed in concern.

 _No_ , Sokka wants to say, but all he can do is cough. A vine twists around his lungs, thorns piercing into his ribcage—then absolute pain as he does everything in his power not to collapse on the floor, chest heaving. He covers his mouth with his hands, body shaking with his desperate attempts to breathe.

“Sokka? Sokka?” Azula’s voice cuts through the warmth surrounding him. Sokka can feel someone trying to lift him back into his chair, a distant pounding on his back as his mind floats away from the corporeal plane—someone’s calling for a doctor—

The coughing subsides.

Sokka sits up in his chair, wheezing quietly as his heart rate falls back to normal. He looks down, eyes widening in shock.

A cluster of primrose, ruby-red, sparkles in his palms.

Azula stares at him, blinking once, twice in confusion. “Of course,” she says in disbelief. “Of _course_.”

And in that instant, there’s only one thing on Sokka’s mind. He stands up, holding the primrose tightly in one clenched fist. He’s focused on the door at the end of the hallway, the one Iroh appeared from, and as he gets ready to walk over, something grabs onto his arm, an ironclad grip that nearly forces him backwards.

Sokka turns around, desperation tying knots in his stomach. “Please.”

“I think you’ve hurt my nephew enough.” Iroh frowns, his lips a dour, straight line devoid of color. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Sokka’s arm.

“But—”

“How are you going to help him?” Iroh’s words cut through him, fallen-star-sharp.

Sokka holds up the primrose in reply, cradling it in his free hand, even as his heart sinks towards the floor and his body very nearly follows suit.

“ _Please_.” Sokka feels like he’s drowning in himself. “ _I need to see him_.”

Silence. The air is tense between them, Sokka waiting with bated breath, feet slowly sinking into the floor with each molasses second.

Iroh looks at him, a resigned expression on his face.

“Fifth door on the left,” he says, fingers loosening their viselike hold around Sokka’s wrist. Sokka pulls free, feet heavy as he runs towards the door and pushes through.

❀ ❀ ❀

The halls of the hospital are sterile, blank canvases but Sokka pays them no attention, eyes only trained on the doors lining the left side of his vision.

 _One_. _Two_. _Three_.

 _Four_.

 _Here_.

Sokka comes to a stop in front of the fifth door, a chart for _HUO, Z._ hanging on the board outside. The door barely protests when he turns the handle and pushes—

 _Oh_.

The fading sunlight illuminates Zuko’s face, shadows rippling across his cheekbones, his scar. He’s absolutely divine, Sokka thinks, a sleeping prince tucked away in his bed, save for the oxygen tubes threading into his nose and a spider lily held loosely between his fingers, a reminder that stabs itself through Sokka’s entire being.

 _Zuko’s dying, and there’s nothing you can do about it_ , a nagging voice worms its way into his mind, but Sokka knows otherwise.

He takes a seat next to the bed, reaching out and stroking Zuko’s hair with a trembling hand. Zuko’s barely warm, face pale with the barest hint of color, the monitor next to the bed beeping softly.

Slowly, Sokka pulls away, resting his hand on Zuko’s chest, a sudden pang of loneliness bruising his ribs as he watches his hand go up, down, up, down, the tiny thumps under his palm proving that Zuko’s alive.

Sokka holds back his tears when he realizes just how close he came to losing Zuko.

“ _Fuck_.”

He stands up and fumbles around, threading the primrose between Zuko’s fingertips, a clumsy braid against the spider lily. Sokka leans over, smoothing out Zuko’s hair, lips brushing over Zuko’s forehead in the tiniest of kisses.

 _I love you_ persists in the air, a timeless whisper when Sokka leaves the room, closing the door shut behind him.

❀ ❀ ❀

Silence.

Then a shuddering noise as Zuko’s breathing evens out, cheeks tinged pink.

❀ ❀ ❀

Sokka’s almost out of the hospital when someone taps him on the shoulder.

It’s Azula.

“Where’re you going?” she asks.

“I need to go feed Druk,” Sokka replies, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, wincing slightly at the ache in his chest.

Azula stares at him, long and hard, and Sokka can almost feel shards of amber piercing straight into his soul.

“You better make him happy,” Azula says, reaching out and squeezing his arm tightly. “You better.”

❀ ❀ ❀

Sokka’s sitting on the porch, Druk snuggling in his lap, when the sound of squealing tires pulls up the driveway on the side of the house. A shiver runs through his body as he braces himself and scrambles to his feet, hands reaching for the flowers next to him. Druk yowls at the sudden movement and jumps, plodding to the side of the garden and sulking.

The door creaks open—and Zuko steps through, surprise clear on his face when Sokka runs towards him and pulls him into a hug.

Zuko melts into his embrace—arms slowly wrapping around Sokka’s back, face buried in the crook of his neck—Sokka can feel him shuddering, gasping like he’s going to cough, and for a moment, he fears for the worst.

When Zuko leans back, there’s no blood, no petals or blossoms in his hands, just a steady _badump_ , _badump_ of his heart when Sokka puts a hand to his chest. Sokka’s heart leaps, a sunflower smile tickling his cheeks as he laughs and pulls Zuko in for a kiss, no iron-metal-taste on their tongues, just longing and warmth. Zuko’s eyelashes flutter when Sokka grins into their kiss.

"Hi," Zuko says shyly.

“Welcome home,” Sokka whispers in his ear. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks everyone for the comments/kudos :) feel free to find me on [tumblr ! ](https://haiyah.tumblr.com)


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